ALESSIO

When I woke up in her room, my fingers itched to reach for her, but she wasn’t there.

I went to get some water, and maybe get an excuse to see her, touch her again.

But I didn’t get that lucky.

And then that phone call…

So now, I stare at the ceiling, stretched out on the couch, the faint scent of Sophie clinging to my skin like a secret I’m not ready to share.

Her laughter from last night replays in my mind, unguarded and real, curling low in my gut. It shouldn’t mean this much, but it does.

She didn’t slam the door. Didn’t leave angry. But she didn’t stay, either.

I drag a hand over my face.

Maybe this was a mistake. Or maybe… maybe this is the first time something actually matters.

I grab my phone off the armrest, ignoring the explosion of unread texts by investors, PR reps, social media buzz. All noise.

Instead, I scroll to a photo I snapped days ago.

Sophie laughing in the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing one of those oversized T-shirts that should be illegal. No makeup. No filter. Just her.

My thumb hovers over the screen, like it might bring her closer.

A text pops up.

Luciana:

Heard about the interview. Look at you, almost adulting.

I snort and type back ,

Need a favor. Where’s Mom’s favorite pastry shop in the city?

Luciana:

What girl are you trying to impress? ??

Don’t ask.

Luciana:

Uh-huh. How bad is it? Flowers or full-on groveling?

Somewhere in between. Cannoli and repentance.

Luciana:

Dramatic, even for you .

How’s life in the middle of nowhere?

Luciana:

Peaceful. Which to you is boring AF. But being here feels like I'm closer to Mom. NGL I miss city noise and overpriced coffee. And chaos, sometimes. Not ur kind, tho.

You sure? I bring the good kind of chaos.

Luciana:

You bring the kind that ends in lawsuits and broken furniture with a dash of STDs.

I laugh under my breath.

A second later, she drops a pin with a winking emoji.

I stare at the address, and for a second, the memory hits sharp. Mom’s perfume, the way she used to wipe powdered sugar off my nose, her laugh echoing through that tiny Brooklyn bakery.

My chest tightens.

Guess I’m not just doing this for Sophie. I’m doing it for the part of me that still wants to believe people like her, and Mom, don’t vanish. They’re just waiting for you to show up.

Later that morning, I find Sophie in the kitchen, damp hair pulled into a low bun, hoodie sliding off one shoulder like she doesn’t know what it does to me.

She’s pouring coffee, completely unaware that just the sight of her barefoot and sleepy might be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.

She glances up. “Morning.”

I hesitate in the doorway for a second longer than I should. “Hey.”

The silence stretches, comfortable, almost, but there’s a weight to it. Not just the usual heat between us. Something deeper. Softer. Complicated.

I clear my throat. “About last night…”

She freezes just slightly, mug hovering at her lips. “Alessio.”

Just my name. But the warning in it is clear.

“It’s complicated,” she adds, softer now. “You know that.”

I want to say I know. I want to say I don’t care. I want to ask if it meant anything to her, or if she’s already shoved it in that same box we shoved that night years ago.

Instead, I shrug and force a grin. “Relax. I wasn’t about to propose. Just checking if the no-pants clause in the roommate agreement is retroactive.”

She snorts into her coffee, and some of the tension cracks. Not all of it. But enough.

I set my phone on the counter. “I’m grabbing pastries later.”

She finally looks up from her coffee, brow pinching. “You’re going out? Alone?”

I blink. “It’s a bakery, Soph. Not a Bratva meetup.”

“I know. It’s just…” She shakes her head like she’s scolding herself for caring.

My voice softens. “I’ll keep my head down. No flirting with mobsters or causing international incidents. Nikolai said the Bratva’s backed off. No one’s going to touch me, not right now. Everyone’s in agreement.”

I look at her, let her see the truth in my words.

“You don’t have to worry.”

Her lips quirk, but her eyes are still serious. “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

“That’s what scares me.”

She doesn’t look up from her coffee.

I smirk. “You into anything with cream filling?”

She chokes mid-sip. “Seriously?”

“What?” I ask, all faux innocence. “You don’t like surprises?”

She shoots me a look over the rim of her mug, and I catch the quick tug at the corner of her mouth before she hides it behind another sip.

Her eyes linger for a beat too long, and something sparks in my chest. Warmth, maybe. Or hope, curling there before I can name it.

It’s different now. The teasing doesn’t feel like armor, it feels like an invitation.

She sets the mug down, eyeing me. “You know, most people would just say thank you for the help.”

I lean in slightly. “I’m not most people.”

“No shit,” she mutters under her breath, but she’s smiling.

And that smile?

That smile does something to me I can’t name. Something that settles low and hot in my chest.

I could get used to this.

After Sophie leaves, the apartment falls into a silence that’s almost too loud.

I pace a slow loop between the kitchen and the living room, staring at the couch where we kissed. Where we didn’t stop. Where we started something that ended with her coming apart beneath me and walking away after I fell asleep.

I can’t shake the feeling that last night changed things, and not just between us.

It’s in the way she avoided my eyes this morning, in the stretch of silence that wasn’t awkward but thick with something unspoken. Like we’re standing on the edge of something, hearts racing, waiting for someone to move first.

My phone buzzes with a text on the counter, and I don’t have to look to know who it is.

I don’t read it, I hit call instead.

Nikolai answers on the second ring. “You’re up early.”

“I haven’t really slept, especially after our conversation last night.” I drag a hand through my hair.

“Any word?”

“Nothing solid. But I talked to two of my guys. Bratva leadership denies involvement in that last note. They’re holding the line for now. The streets are quiet.”

I exhale through my nose. “Then who the hell sent it?”

A pause stretches.

“My gut says it’s someone personal. Not Bratva. Not some rando. This was close. Intimate.”

The word sits heavy in my gut. Intimate. Like whoever left it knows exactly how to twist the knife.

“Someone watching me?”

“Watching both of you,” he corrects, and the way he says it makes my skin crawl.

I clench my jaw. “Keep pushing. I want a name.”

“I’ll get it,” Nikolai promises. “Just… watch your back, yeah?”

“I’m done being a fucking target. And I’m done letting her be one.”

I hang up and stare at the phone in my palm, my pulse still hammering.

This used to be about cleaning up my mess. Now it’s about keeping her safe.

And that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous motivation.

The smell hits me the second I push open the door, cinnamon, butter, almond, sugar. It’s warm in the way memories are, wrapping around me like a childhood blanket.

The place is barely bigger than a closet, tucked into the corner of a sleepy Brooklyn block. Brick walls, dusty wood shelves, a chalkboard menu with smudged prices. Nothing flashy. Just comfort.

I step up to the counter, clearing my throat. “Box of chocolate-dipped cannoli. And almond crescent cookies.”

The older woman behind the register, short, with gray streaks in her tight bun and shrewd eyes that miss nothing, tilts her head.

“You a Marchetti?”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. Alessio.”

Her face softens. “Your mama came here every time she was in town. Always said this place reminded her of home. She used to sit right over there.” She gestures to a tiny two-top table by the window. “Wouldn’t leave without a box of cannoli and crescents for her son.”

Something cracks open in my chest, sharp and sudden. “She used to bring me here when I was a kid.”

“I remember. Big brown eyes. Always trying to steal an extra cookie when she wasn’t looking.”

A rough laugh escapes me. “That tracks.”

She nods, slipping the pastries into a box. “She had good taste.”

“Yeah, she really did.”

When I step outside, the cold bites a little harder than before, but I don’t feel it. Not really.

I’m carrying a box of pastries, sure. But what I’m really holding is a piece of Mom, a woman who made me believe I was more than my father’s name.

A woman whose love didn’t come with conditions or strategies or exit clauses.

My mother gave that kind of love freely.

Fiercely. And maybe Sophie is part of that, too.

She makes me want to be the man my mother always saw.

And damn if that doesn’t terrify me.

By the time Sophie gets home, the bakery box is already sitting on the counter with a sticky note on top in my messy scrawl.

Figured you could use something sweet after babysitting me all week.

She pauses when she sees it, arching an eyebrow. “You bribing me with carbs now?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Just trying to soften you up.”

Her lips twitch. “Bold of you to assume I can be softened.”

I step closer, dropping my voice just enough to make her still. “You were last night.”

She stares at me, eyes narrowing, but her breath catches.

She picks up the box instead, fingers lingering on the lid a beat too long, like she’s trying to steady herself.

Her hand shakes almost imperceptibly before she opens it.

“Cannoli,” she says, teasing. “Let me guess. You saw them and thought of yourself?”

I grin. “I’m cream-filled and irresistible. What can I say?”

She laughs despite herself. It’s quiet, but it’s real.

She breaks off a piece and pops it into her mouth. Powdered sugar coats her lips, and I swear I lose a full second of thought.

She takes another bite, and her eyes flutter closed for a second. “Damn. That’s actually incredible.”

The little moan she lets slip might just kill me.

She licks the sugar away slowly. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?”

She finally makes eye contact, that little grin still playing on her mouth.

The sight knocks the wind out of me, low and sharp.

My chest tightens with a hunger that’s not just lust. It’s need. The kind that makes you stupid and brave all at once.

She shakes her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you.”

Her expression shifts just slightly, softer, warmer, and she tilts her head. “You keep feeding me like this, and I might actually start to like you.”

I lean back. “Careful, dolcezza . I might start hoping that’s true.”

But as I watch her walk away, still licking sugar from her fingers, one thought roots itself deep.

What happens after the merger? Do we go back to pretending none of this mattered… or is this just the beginning of something…real?